


5 Times Dean Took Care of Sam, and 1 Time he Didn't.

by SamCentricJW (SamWIsAGod)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Season 1, Season 3, Sickfic, Teenchesters, Weechesters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-02
Updated: 2015-06-16
Packaged: 2018-03-26 17:39:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3859084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SamWIsAGod/pseuds/SamCentricJW
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>5 glimpses into the past where Dean cared for Sam when he was ill, injured, etc. and one time where Sam had to take care of himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part One

-1990-

 

“When’s Dad going to be home?” Sam asked hoarsely, one hand reaching out from under the three blankets covering him to rub his watery, bloodshot eyes. He shivered again, pulling the blankets tighter and moaning miserably, “Come lay with me, I’m so cold.”

 

“You’re not cold, you just feel like that because you’ve got a fever.” Dean replied quietly, though he did sit next to his brother, carefully running his fingers through Sam’s unruly hair, “Dad won’t be home until Friday, it’s only Wednesday.”

 

“I want him to come home now.” Sam whined, inching closer to his brother and not even bothering to turn his head when he sneezed, sending a glob of snot onto Dean’s t-shirt. He sniffed, his nose twitching like he may sneeze again, then when he didn’t after a few seconds, he buried his face into his brother’s chest, “I need more cold medicine.”

 

“I know, but we’re out of money.” Dean replied quietly, feeling incredibly guilty that he couldn’t do more for his miserable brother, “When I talk to Dad, I’ll tell him to bring some when he comes home.”

 

Sam didn’t respond, only coughing harshly, bringing up thick, green globs of mucus that he spit into a tissue that Dean had waiting for him. The cold had started off as a terrible sore throat on Sunday, making Sam irritable and tired and generally unpleasant to be around. Water hurt to drink and juice was unbearable, so Dean had fed quarters into the soda machine outside, fizzy drinks being the only thing Sam would drink. Dean had used a flashlight to look into his brother’s throat, comparing images to a medical reference book their Dad carried around with them as an indicator of when they needed a doctor and when home remedies were good enough. From what he could gather, Sam’s tonsils were swollen, which made him fearful that he’d have to find a doctor to get the damn things removed, since every kid he ever heard of with sick tonsils had to get them taken out. 

 

Monday morning, though, Sam’s tonsils had gone down in size quite a bit and the seven year old had spent more time coughing than complaining that his throat hurt. He had insisted Dean turn off the motel’s air conditioner, the cold air making his coughing and throat worse, and still refused to eat or drink anything other than cold, fizzy sodas. It wasn’t until late Monday night that Dean had been able to coax his brother to eat some soup, and even then Sam had only had a few bites of it before complaining that he wanted to go to sleep because his head hurt. They had spent the day on the couch, Dean sitting on one end and Sam laying sprawled out with his slightly warm head in Dean’s lap, watching television while Sam dozed off and on. 

 

Tuesday morning brought sneezing fits in addition to the sore throat, cough and headache. Sam hadn’t even bothered getting out of bed, miserably accepting the tissue every time he started leaking snot and wanting only to lay still with his eyes closed; the congestion filling his head made him feel woozy when upright. His fever had also risen from 100 to 103, which didn’t improve his clingy yet irritable mood. 

 

By Wednesday, a painfully throbbing ear was added to the list, along with a definite wheeze with each breath. Dean had kept Sam in bed again, which hadn’t been hard to do; Sam was more than happy to stay bundled under the blankets because any time that he wasn’t buried under a mountain of cotton, he was shivering uncontrollably with chills. He had been in and out of awareness for most of the day, hovering between dozing and alert, and had been asking for their father repeatedly all day. Dean would have been annoyed if he had thought for a moment that Sam had been coherent enough any of the times to remember asking the question. Instead of annoyed, he found himself more concerned than anything. 

 

It wasn’t unheard of for one of them, both if completely unlucky, to come down with something. It was expected when they constantly travelled from location to location, stayed in grimy hotels and ate at questionable diners. Usually, though, they bounced back fairly quickly. Dad had said, in the past, that their immune systems were boosted by the sheer amount of exposure they’ve had to different germs and bacteria, which helped them heal faster. Dean liked to think it was because their Mom was watching over them from Heaven and healing them quickly. He tried to tell their father that once, but the conversation did not go well, and now he kept that opinion to himself. The fact that Sammy was still sick, and declining, several days later made Dean feel nervous and out of his element. 

 

He wasn’t an expert in sick kids. He knew how to read the label and measure out fever reducers and cold medicines, even the occasional antibiotic, and he knew how to check a temperature and what was considered “dangerous”. He knew that when Sam had a tummyache, the best thing to do was to give him apple juice and keep a trashcan nearby for emergencies, because Sam was still little and didn’t always recognize warning signs in his body. Thankfully, Dean had spent enough time caring for his younger brother that he usually knew what was going to happen before Sam, which had kept the accidents to a minimum. He knew that sore throats needed soup, and he was really good at heating it up to the exact temperature that Sam liked it. Dean also knew that cold, damp washcloths made Sam feel better if he had a headache or a bellyache, but they needed to be warm if Sam had an earache or stuffy head. Still, all of this knowledge did nothing to reassure him now that Sam was a coughing, boiling, achy snot-faucet. 

 

Dean had kept his cool for the first few days, each night expecting that they’d wake up the next morning and Sam would be back to his chatty, hyper self. Each morning, he had been disappointed. He was starting to think things couldn’t get any worse, they had already covered the entire spectrum of cold symptoms. Eventually, one of the multiple symptoms had to clear up and indicate that the worst was behind them. Now that Sam was wheezy, though, Dean didn’t want to take his eyes off of his brother just in case things went further downhill. Once he was sure Sam had dozed off, he stood and walked to the kitchen table, where the medical reference book sat, and carried it back to Sam’s bed. There was a section where he could follow the symptoms checklist to decide if it was doctor or hospital worthy, so he found the page where they talked about coughs and wheezing and started to investigate. 

 

Five minutes later, Dean tossed the book against the wall with a scowl. The book had been less than helpful, his research indicating that his brother had some respiratory illness that could range from a common cold to tuberculosis. He could have come to that conclusion without having to read anything. He reached over, placing his hand on Sam’s sweaty forehead once more and sighing. He had to do something about this fever, but he hated to see Sam suffer when his blankets were taken away. He carefully peeled back the top layer of blanket, watching Sam’s face carefully to see if he started to wake. Once he was certain he wasn’t disturbing the younger boy, he peeled back the second blanket, pushing it towards the foot of the bed so it would still be accessible should Sam stir and start asking. 

 

The timer on his watch beeped, signaling it was time for more fever reducers, but Dean didn’t head to the medicine cabinet to retrieve the cherry liquid. The last thing he wanted to do was disturb his brother when he was finally asleep, not only because Sam needed his rest but also because it was less worrisome when Sam wasn’t mumbling nonsense and delirious from his fever. In his sleep, Sam began to cough again, rolling to his side and struggling to cough up the mucus coating his throat. After a few moments, the phlegm finally worked it’s way up and out, landing on the pillow after the last wheezy cough of this fit. Dean made a face, reaching for a tissue to remove the offensive secretion, but stopped when he looked closer at it. Instead of yellow or green like the junk Sam had been coughing up all week was, this time it was stained with blood. No question about it, Dean was now officially freaked out and out of his league. It was time to call their father. 

 

John arrived home nine hours later, weary and exhausted. Dean had been on pins and needles, just knowing his father would hate him for calling him to come home early. He was sitting beside Sam when John walked in, cool cloths placed on Sam’s forehead, neck and under his armpits. Despite the Tylenol that Dean had eventually forced on him, Sam’s cheeks were still flushed red with fever and at the last reading, the thermometer had crept up to a terrifying 104.8. The entire room smelled of disease and sickness; a musty smell that John had always associated with nursing homes or hospital wings, an odor he never would have thought that his seven year old child was capable of producing. He wasn’t sure if it was the phelgm-coated tissues or the fact that his son was sweaty and probably hadn’t bathed in days, since he became sick, but even though this was a simple respiratory illness, John could tell something was wrong from the moment he entered the room. Mixed with the foul odor was the telltale smell of vapor rub, and judging by how strong the scent was, it was clear it had been used copiously and repeatedly for an extended amount of time.

 

“Hey, Dad.” Dean croaked tiredly, now going on his 23rd hour straight of being awake, “He just fell back asleep.”

 

“Give me a rundown of what’s going on, Son.” John instructed, sitting opposite Dean on the other side of Sam and reaching out to touch his youngest’s skin. He was surprised by the heat radiating off of the young boy, even though Dean had warned him how high Sam’s temperature had risen. 

 

“He’s still coughing a lot.” Dean replied, “Mostly he’s coughing up stuff...it started off yellow and slimy, then it was green and chunky, almost solid. Now it’s sort of a mix between green and bloody.”

 

It was a true testament to how much pressure and responsibility put on the eldest son how Dean was able to report back details that normal 11 year old children were too squeamish to handle. John took the tissue that Dean handed him to see for himself what was coming out of his youngest, and he didn’t like what he saw. He looked at Dean, silently urging him to continue. 

 

“His fever has been a roller coaster all day, going up to nearly 105 when it’s almost time for another dose of meds, but even after the tylenol kicks in, it only drops to 101-102. He’s been in and out of it all day, though the longer that passes, the less sense he makes. I tried to give him a sponge bath to try and bring his fever down, but he was shaking so much and was starting to panic. The best I could do was these cold rags; I’ve been changing them out ever 10-15 minutes. He’s also wheezing pretty bad.”

 

John nodded, able to hear the wheezing without even trying, and asked, “Any trouble breathing?”

 

“No, just the coughing and wheezing. He did say a few times that his chest hurt. His throat looks pretty awful too; his tonsils were swollen a few days ago but are almost normal now. He’s not eating, I can barely get him to drink anything.” Dean paused, looking at his father with a worried expression, “Do you think he’ll be alright?”

 

“I’m sure he’ll be fine, son. You did great.” He signed, running his fingers through his hair, and then stood, “I’m going to run him to the urgent care clinic, it won’t hurt to have a professional lay eyes on him. Do you want to come or would you like to get some sleep?”

 

“I’m coming.” Dean replied, searching for his shoes before John had even finished speaking, “Sammy’s got his pajamas on; we should probably leave him like that. With his fever as high as it is, he’s been getting a little disoriented at times and he may fight us.”

 

“You’re the expert.” John replied, taking Dean’s lead and bundling his youngest son before walking down to the car. Two hours, a chest x-ray and an IV drip of ringers lactate later, the doctor reassured the worried father that Sam was only suffering with a severe case of bronchitis and a sinus infection, not pneumonia as John had been worried about.


	2. Part Two

-1992-

 

“Dean? Dean!” Sam hissed, shaking Dean’s shoulder roughly, “Dean, wake up!”

 

“What?” Dean groaned, cracking open an eye tiredly, “What time is it? What are you doing up?”

 

Sam sat down on the edge of Dean’s bed, leaning over and resting his head against his brother’s shoulder, “I don’t feel good, Dean.”

 

“What?” Dean asked, yawning widely and reaching for the lamp, “What’s wrong?”

 

“I think I ate something bad.” Sam replied, his voice wavering slightly, “I was fine before, but now I feel really sick.”

 

Dean didn’t need to hear more before he was wide awake, sitting up and putting his hand to Sam’s forehead, “You’re not warm. Your stomach hurts?”

 

“It doesn’t hurt as much as it just feels like my burger’s trying to claw it’s way out.” Sam replied, making a face at his own words and then belching, grimacing at the acid that rose and burned in his throat, “Do you have anything I can take? I don’t want to throw up.”

 

Dean swung his legs off the bed, thinking through all of their supplies as he tried to answer Sam’s question, though he came up empty; it had been years since one of them had been sick enough to warrant an anti-nausea medication, so even if they had something Sam could take it would be long-since expired. “Sorry, kiddo. I wish I had something. I may be able to rustle up some Pepto…”

 

“Ugh, I’d rather puke than drink that.” Sam commented distastefully; he had always loathed the chalky pink liquid more than any other form of medication he’d been subjected to over the years. “Are you sure?”

 

“Sorry, Sammy. You’re going to have to ride it out.” Dean replied sympathetically, snatching the top blanket off of Sam’s bed and wrapping it around his brother’s shoulders, noticing the way his younger brother was starting to lightly shiver, “Is this going to happen right now? Or do we have time?”

 

Sam put a fist to his mouth, belching once more and swallowing back more acid that surged in his throat, then held out his hand back and forth in a wobbly motion, groaning, “I don’t know, Dean. I just know it’s on the agenda.”

 

“Let’s relocate, then, just to be safe.” Dean suggested, knowing that if Sam was absolutely sure he was going to puke, there was a good chance that it was going to be sooner rather than later. He flipped the light switch on in the bathroom, then carefully lowered Sam to the floor, making sure his blanket was still securely on his shoulders, “Sit tight, okay? I’m going to get you a glass of water. Just close your eyes and try to relax.”

 

Sam only moaned in response, causing Dean to be glad he had decided to stash him in the bathroom; it wouldn’t be long now. He walked to the kitchen, filling up a glass with cool water, then grabbed one of the rags they used to wash and dry dishes with and wet it, squeezing most of the water out and bringing it with him. By the time he got back to the tiny bathroom, Sam had moved from sitting against the wall to kneeling in front of the toilet, one arm curled around the toilet seat with his cheek resting against it.

 

“I don’t want to throw up.” Sam whined, panic clearly audible in his voice, “I really hate it. Dean, you have to fix it.”

 

Dean reached over, adjusting Sam’s blanket so it was still covering him and then stood nearby, leaning against the sink with a sympathetic frown, “I wish I could, Sammy. It sucks, it’s going to suck, but it’ll be over soon. Just get all of that crap out of you and hopefully you’ll feel better right away.”

 

Sam groaned, then turned his head slightly, burping again and then gagging once, though it was unproductive. He spit, then looked back up at Dean with teary eyes, “I hate this.”

 

“I hate it too, Sammy.” Dean replied, feeling utterly useless and helpless. He hated not being able to do anything, but there was literally nothing he could do in this situation other than be there for his brother and fetch him whatever he needed. He really would rather be anywhere else than ringside for this event, but he couldn’t stand the idea of Sam suffering alone when he could at least be providing some sort of comfort or support. “Just don’t fight it. Get it over with and then you can go back to bed.”

 

Sam moaned, gagging again with a little more intensity, though it was still not enough to get things moving along. His mouth was watering profusely and he spit into the toilet, looking back at Dean with a pitiful expression. 

 

“It’ll happen when it happens.” Dean offered, certain that his opinion wasn’t helpful, but unable to ignore the pleading expression on his brother’s face, “Just relax.”

 

“I--” Sam burped again, then coughed and spit another mouthful of acidic saliva out, “I can’t relax, knowing what’s going to happen. I feel too crappy to relax.”

 

Dean took a few steps towards his brother, squatting beside him and putting a hand on Sam’s back, rubbing it gently in circles for a few seconds, “I know you feel like shit, and I know you’re freaking out, but it’s really not that bad. This stuff happens sometimes. Just stop fighting it.”

 

Sam felt liquid surge in his throat without warning and he quickly turned so his head was completely over the toilet, not wanting to make a mess that he or Dean would later be stuck cleaning up. His body convulsed violently, spasms working their way from his stomach up his throat with little mercy, forcing out everything he had eaten in the last day, possibly longer. He was vaguely aware of Dean’s hand on his shoulder, talking quietly to him although he couldn’t make out any of the words over the misery taking place with his body. 

 

Dean cringed as Sam threw up for the fourth time, not needing to see his brother’s face to know he was probably crying. He turned away for a moment, never breaking contact with his brother, and tried to block out what was happening for a moment so his body wouldn’t react the same in a sympathetic gesture. Once he was sure his own body would not betray him, he waited for Sam to finish, carefully pulling his brother back when Sam had been quiet for longer than a minute. 

 

It was easy to maneuver Sam into a sitting position propped up against the wall, and he used Sam’s discarded blanket to cover the trembling kid. He flushed, then handed Sam the glass of water, instructing, “Either rinse and spit or take small sips, we don’t want it to come right back up.”

 

Sam nodded, taking the cup but hesitating when it got close to his mouth. With a sigh, he took a sip, then leaned forward to spit it out in the toilet. He shuddered violently, his stomach achy and sore now and his head beginning to throb, “Dean?”

 

“Yeah, Sam?” Dean asked, kneeling down in front of his brother and gently wiping his face with the rag he had brought in, “You need something?”

 

“I’m tired.”

 

“I bet you are.” Dean soothed, tossing the rag into the sink, “Do you think you are done in here?”

 

Sam hesitated, putting his hand over his stomach in an attempt to gauge what was happening on the inside. After a few seconds, he shook his head, whispering, “No. I still feel like I could puke any second.”

 

“Fair enough. Let me bring you some stuff to make you more comfortable.” Dean replied kindly, standing and moving to the bedroom to gather a few pillows and a sheet. He placed the sheet on the floor, knowing Sam wouldn’t be thrilled about sitting on the dingy floor for a prolonged period of time, and then laid the pillows down on the edge, “Here you go, Sammy. Just rest; you’ll be right here if it happens again.”

 

“Will you stay?” Sam asked quietly, his voice pleading although Dean could tell his younger brother was trying to be brave, “You don’t have to, but--”

 

“Where else would I go?” Dean retorted, reaching over to tousle his brother’s hair, “It’s not like I’m going to go back to bed and leave you here to suffer alone. I’ll be right here.”

 

“Thanks.” Sam replied quietly, looking up as Dean crossed the small room and sat between his brother and the tub. Sam wasted no time leaning his head against Dean’s chest, feeling ten times better as soon as Dean put an arm around him. 

 

“Need a pillow?” Sam asked tiredly, his eyes drooping closed. 

 

Dean shook his head, though he did pull one corner of Sam’s blanket over his own legs, “No, I’m good. Just try to get some rest before round two.”

 

Sam closed his eyes, his arm stretching around so he was holding onto Dean tightly, his face pressed against his brother’s shoulder and his sore stomach pressed up against Dean’s side, the warmth providing just enough comfort to make him feel like he could relax just a bit. He was asleep within minutes, a thin layer of drool dribbling out of the corner of his mouth and onto Dean’s t-shirt. It always amazed the older boy how Sam could, and would, sleep anywhere. He supposed it was because as far back as Sam could remember, they’d always been on the road, which meant sleeping in the car, in a tent, sharing a crappy hotel room bed, sleeping on the floor of an abandoned house or something equally as abnormal on a regular basis. Dean could remember what it was like to be tucked in to a warm bed by loving parents, with bedtime stories or a song, saying prayers to protect their family...it seemed like a lifetime ago, but Dean cherished the few memories he still clearly had of life before the fire. Like Sam, Dean could fall asleep in the strangest of places, but sleep did not come as easily for the older brother unless it was in a bed, in a room with the a/c or heater blowing and some sort of noise in the background; usually Sam’s breathing if Dad was away, or the television if Dad was with them. He leaned his head forward, resting his forehead against the top of Sam’s head and saying a silent prayer that his brother would feel better soon. He long ago started wondering if anyone was listening to his prayers, and hoped that if they were, they had their listening ears on tonight.

 

Dean didn’t realize he had dozed off until he was startled awake by Sam moaning his name miserably as the younger boy untangled himself from his big brother’s grasp. Knowing what that tone meant, Dean forced himself awake and glanced at the clock, scowling when he saw that only twenty minutes had lapsed. Sam’s movements were clumsier this time around and Dean forced the tiredness away so he could support Sam’s wobbly frame and head while he was sick once again. Once the younger boy’s body stopped spasming, Sam fell against his older brother, groaning miserably, “This sucks.”

 

“I know it does, kiddo.” Dean replied, wiping Sam’s face with the rag before putting the palm of his hand against Sam’s warm and damp forehead, “I think you’ve got the beginnings of a fever brewing.”

 

“I want to lay down in bed.” Sam murmured, sinking further into Dean’s chest with his eyes closed, “I’m so tired.”

 

“I’ll bet you are.” Dean shifted slightly, not wanting to jostle Sam too much but needing to get into a better position to help the younger boy to his feet. After a few moments of careful movements, he was able to slowly raise his brother, keeping a close eye on Sam as he became vertical just in case his body disagreed with the motion. “You good?”

 

Sam nodded, allowing Dean to do most of the work as they slowly made their way back to bed. Dean carefully lowered his brother onto the bed, covering him and asking, “Do you need anything?”

 

“Stay with me?” Sam pleaded, his eyes glassy and unfocused as he teetered between sleep and awareness. Unable to say no, Dean took the spot beside his brother, hoping they’d be able to get some rest but knowing that even if they couldn’t, it was worth the lack of sleep for Sam to look at him like he was a superhero and the only person in the world who could make things better.


	3. 2006

-2006-

 

“Stop touching the controls!” Dean snapped, swatting Sam’s hand away as the younger man once again reached for the volume control, “I can barely hear it as it is.”

 

“You need to get your hearing checked.” Sam retorted tiredly, “It’s loud, it’s killing my ears.”

 

Dean raised an eyebrow skeptically, then turned the dial a fraction of a centimeter, “Seriously, dude, I can barely hear it. You okay?”

 

“I’m fine. I just think your music sucks.” Sam snorted, looking away from the radio and out the window as the tune of “In A Gada Da Vida” echoed through his brain, not quite giving him a headache but making his head feel oddly full and pressurized.

 

Dean glared for a moment, then turned the volume back to its original setting just out of spite of his brother’s judgement, singing along at an obnoxious level of volume and pitch. Sam reached over to adjust the volume again, and Dean slapped his hand before raising his middle finger in his brother’s direction with a smirk, not needing words to get his point across as he continued to sing.

 

By the time the song ended, Sam’s head was starting to throb in time with the music, and he didn’t let Dean stop him from adjusting the volume as the mixed tape switched to Metallica’s “Master of Puppets”, knowing that if he had to listen to the entire song through anything louder than a whisper, his rapidly progressing headache would be unbearable. 

 

“What’s your problem, Sammy?” Dean questioned in annoyance, glancing at Sam and then back to the road, tapping his hands against the steering wheel in beat with the music, “Stop sulking.”

 

“Stop being a dick.” Sam retorted, resting his head against the window and staring out at the road. He hadn’t been sleeping much and in addition to his head feeling disconnected more often than not lately, his temper and patience were much shorter than usual.

 

They were silent, with the exception of the radio, for several minutes, Dean’s mind occupied thinking of the case their father had pointed them in the direction of, via cryptic coordinates on a phone that was no longer in service. They were making good time, and the preliminary research indicated a routine spirit that needed to be laid to rest. If they continued at this pace, they were only looking at two to three days in town max, perhaps less if they were able to get a name and burial site with little trouble. The cassette player clicked then ejected, and Dean asked his brother, “Hey, could you grab Ozzy from the case?”

 

While Dean had been concentrating on work, Sam had been concentrating on keeping his eyes closed and breathing through the discomfort in his head. The pressure hadn’t lessened any, and now it felt like a jackhammer was drilling through his skull in time with his heartbeat. Every time he opened his eyes, the world tilted and shifted as if he had gone on a 2 day bender and he was starting to feel a little queasy from the disorientation. The song on the cassette ended and the car was silent for a few seconds, but even that felt like agony to his head, road noise and even the sound of Dean’s breathing echoing through his sensitive ears and pounding straight into his aching head. 

 

He forced his eyes open as he tried to focus on what Dean was saying, though it sounded like his ears were stuffed with cotton on top of Dean speaking to him from underwater. Sam knew this was a bad sign, he rarely had headaches that miraculously went away on their own, quickly and without medication. And judging by the shimmering around the surface of every object he focused on, he had a feeling this wasn’t going to be an ordinary headache. 

 

Dean’s voice echoed painfully through his ears and Sam resisted the urge to bring his hands to cover them in an effort to keep the sound away. He managed to comprehend something about the cassette, and out of habit he bent down to get the cardboard box that held their ancient music, which proved to be a mistake as the pain blossomed as soon as he bent over, rapidly building to the point where tears stung his eyes from the sheer pain. 

 

“Come on, Dude, give me Ozzy.”

 

“Dean.” Sam mumbled weakly, raising a hand to his head and reaching out to his brother with the other, “We’re gonna need to stop.”

 

“What’s wrong, Sammy?” Dean asked, on alert and growing concerned for his brother who clearly seemed to be suffering now, “Talk to me.”

 

“I-I think it’s a migraine. It’s still early, but it feels like it’ll be a big one.” Sam replied in a hoarse whisper, “I need to lay down, somewhere dark,” he breathed out, then swallowed hard and added, “I’m gonna throw up.”

 

“Like, right now?” Dean asked worriedly, glancing over his shoulder to see if it was safe to change lanes, “Why didn’t you say something sooner? I would have been on the lookout for a motel.”

 

“No, not yet. But it’s coming.” Sam said, swallowing again and clutching his head with his hands, “I didn’t realize it was a migraine right away, but it definitely is.”

 

Dean reached over and turned the radio off completely, suddenly understanding his brother’s irritation over the music earlier and wishing he had seen it sooner, “What can I do to help? Need pills or something?”

 

“Just quiet.” Sam groaned, turning his head to look at his brother and then wincing when it felt like someone had driven a stake through his brain. His vision blurred for a moment and he shut his eyes tightly, then covered his eyes with his hands, pressing down firmly against his skin. His skin hurt to be touched, even a gentle touch would be agonizing soon, he knew, but the light visible through his eyelids hurt worse and he had to settle for the less of two evils. They hit a bump and it jostled Sam, causing him to cry out in pain when the headache officially crossed the threshold from terrible headache to full-fledged migraine. The feel of the air conditioner on his face felt like needles being driven into his skin, and he shakily reached out to shut off the offending device. The sound of the tires on the road echoed painfully through his ears, the hum of the engine sounding like it was amplified just to torture him The place he had always felt was his home was now a torture chamber, and he needed out. 

 

Dean glanced in his brother’s direction, anxiety stirring up within him as it always did when Sam was unwell. He knew how to handle migraines, Sam was no stranger to them, but it was hard to watch his brother in pain and this one was going downhill fast. Sam’s pale face has turned ashen and the younger man was clearly in a great deal of pain. He watched as Sam swallowed again, shuddering slightly, and knew they needed to find a motel quickly, Sam needed medication, a dark room, a soft bed and a cold washcloth. They hit another rough patch of road and Dean winced as Sam moaned loudly and then cringed as if his own voice was hurting his head, which it probably was.

 

Dean spotted a sign for a motel ahead in the distance, a chain with bright, welcoming lights, and he hesitated for only a brief moment. They tried to stay away from places that kept official records and possibly had security systems, but he hadn’t seen anything else yet and Sam needed a bed. Just this once, he’d have to make an exception. A glance in his brother’s direction told him he needed to hurry, Sam looked moments away from losing his lunch and his face was tight with pain. “We’re about to pull into the motel. Keep your eyes covered, it’s pretty well-lit. And for the love of God, Sammy, don’t puke in my car.”

 

Sam gagged as soon as Dean said the word ‘puke’ and he moved one large hand from his eyes to his mouth, shuddering at the bile that had crept into his throat but swallowing it back and attempting to follow one of his brother’s oldest and most serious rules. He hadn’t tossed his cookies in the car since he was a young child and he wasn’t planning on starting now. If only his head would stop trying to murder him from the inside out, maybe he’d be able to hold it together until they made it into a room. 

 

Dean pulled into a parking spot and jumped out, leaving Sam alone in the now-quieter car. He could hear the rumble of cars passing on the road outside, the buzz of the hotel’s sign, but now that their own car was off, the noise was much more tolerable. Hands covering his eyes, he focused on steady breathing to prevent getting sick and waited anxiously for Dean to return; he couldn’t wait to be horizontal. 

 

Sam flew forward as he was jolted by an impact, the force of the collision not particularly strong though it took him completely off-guard. The sound of crunching metal made his body tremble as his pain level was brought to a crescendo and the unexpected jolt cause him to lose the battle against his stomach, meatloaf and mashed potatoes making an unwelcome reappearance down the front of his clothing and the floorboards. He rested his head against the dashboard, trying to wait out the disorientation and pain for a few moments before attempting to move, and he winced as he heard his brother’s shout. Agonizingly slowly, Sam pieced together what must have just happened; someone had the audacity to rear-end Dean’s Baby. Dean was going to kill them, and while Sam would normally try to be the voice of reason, he found himself totally on board with whoever had brought his migraine to new fathoms of unbearableness meeting a painful ending. 

 

Dean had just gotten his receipt when he heard the sound of tires squealing and metal colliding with metal. Without seeing, he instantly knew it was his Baby that had been the victim of someone’s inability to drive. He rushed out, seeing Sam conscious and not bleeding, though looking quite disoriented, and decided his brother wasn’t in serious condition and could wait for a moment while he tended to his other priority. Once he had finished yelling at the other driver, a guy around their age who had been too busy texting to pay attention to the stopped car in front of the motel office, he turned his attention back to his brother, dismayed but not surprised that the younger man had done some redecorating of the interior in his absence. 

 

“Is the car okay?” Sam asked weakly as the Impala’s engine rumbled to life, causing more stabs of pain to ripple through his skull.

 

Dean was quiet as he responded, “Nothing that can’t be fixed. Jackass had insurance, so they’ll cover the damages. Too bad about the interior, though.” 

 

“Sorry.” Sam whispered, his face flushing pink against the grey that had taken residence on his features, “Accident took me by surprise, I wasn’t braced for it.”

 

“Are you hurt anywhere?” Dean asked, “Other than the migraine, of course.”

 

“No, I just need to lay down.”

 

“One bed, coming up.” Dean said, pressing the key into Sam’s hand since his brother’s eyes were closed, “I’ll get the bags and take care of the car, you clean yourself up and hit the rack. I’ll keep it down when I come in.”

 

“Thanks.” Sam mumbled, squinting his eyes open when the car stopped, trying to make out the hazy numbers on the door and key. He was more than a little relieved when Dean spoke up, “Straight ahead, bottom floor. Can’t miss it.”

 

Resembling a horror-flick zombie more than a person at the moment, Sam staggered into the hotel room, heading straight for the bathroom. He stripped off his clothes, leaving him only in boxers, and tossed them into the shower, wincing at the sound of the fabric hitting the tub echoed through his head, and, despite knowing the noise and sensation were going to be excruciating, he turned on the faucet to rinse out his mouth. As expected, the running water grated against his already sensitive ears and it felt like he was rinsing his mouth out with nails instead of water. 

 

He closed the curtains tightly then stumbled to the closest bed, even though that usually was the spot his brother took, and gently laid down. He wanted nothing more than to flop down and escape into unconsciousness, but even the air hurt his skin and he knew any rough movements would be unbearable. His sheets felt like sandpaper against his body, but it felt amazing to have his head resting on something and not relying on his sore neck to hold it upright, and if it made his head happy, it was worth the discomfort elsewhere. 

 

Dean walked into the room fifteen minutes later, crossing the threshold as quietly as possible and laying the bags down gently on the floor. As far as he could tell, Sam was asleep and he knew that was the best position for him to be in the condition he was currently in. Now began the waiting; he knew from experience that there wasn’t much he could do in the room that wouldn’t disturb his brother’s light doze; the computer keyboard would make too much noise, listening to music even with headphones on would be a disruption and the television was out of the question. The last time his little brother had suffered with a severe migraine, even turning the pages of a magazine had been too much noise for the younger Winchester to tolerate. Instead, Dean eased himself onto his own bed, waiting to be needed. 

 

“You’re breathing too loud.” Sam moaned just a few minutes later, apparently not asleep after all, “Killing me.”

 

“I’ll try to breathe more quietly.” Dean placated, although he knew there was no way to breathe quieter unless he stopped breathing all together. “But since you’re awake, you need to take some pills.”

 

“I’ll just throw them up.” Sam murmured into his pillow, “Later.”

 

“You won’t get better without them.” Dean reasoned, “I know you’re ready to stop feeling like this.”

 

Sam cracked open one eye, making out his brother’s profile in the darkened room, “Will you get me a cold rag too?”

 

Dean retreated to the bathroom, duffel in hand, so he could shut the door and turn on the light to find the meds, and while he was in there he ran two washcloths under the faucet, wringing both out before turning off the light and walking back into the main room. He handed Sam a small white pill, asking quietly, “Do you need some water with it?”

 

“No, it’s a dissolving tablet not something I have to swallow whole.”

 

While Sam waited for the pill to dissolve, he allowed Dean to gently lay one folded rag gently over his eyes and left his head to lay one under his neck as well. He reached out, squeezing Dean’s arm in a silent thanks before trying to relax enough to fall asleep. Eventually he did doze off, his body protesting in agony until it eventually shut off. 

Dean watched Sam carefully until his brother’s breathing evened out, signalling he was asleep. He had plenty of experience with Sam in this state, it was something they had to ride out and wait to pass, but even knowing this didn’t make Dean feel like any less of a failure for not being able to do something when his little brother was clearly miserable. He slowly reached over in Sam’s direction, not wanting the bed to creak or the air to shift or anything that may disturb the younger man’s rest, and gently touched the washcloth draped over Sam’s face. It was starting to feel more room temperature than cold, so he carefully lifted it and pulled another from the ice bucket, folding it and laying it gently in the position Sam had put the first. There was nothing left to do but wait, so Dean settled into his own bed, not daring to fall asleep in case he was needed and content to keep vigil until things improved.


End file.
